hampton academy
by boleynqueens
Summary: epistolary fic told mainly through the journals of henry tudor and anne boleyn (modern AU, high school)
**Diary of Anne Boleyn:**

September 28, 2002, Saturday, 8:31 PM

Saw a boy while the headmaster gave me a tour of Hampton Academy yesterday.

Or, rather, while I was wandering through the school by myself, afterwards.

He wasn't cuter than Harry, or anything, of course. But, he was quite handsome. Remarkably so: Greek nose, long lashes and a full mouth that were almost…too feminine? I guess he's more beautiful than handsome, really. High cheekbones, ridiculous model stuff, really. The only flaw I could discern was a slight bump in his nose, and he has this thick, auburn hair, and usually boys with red hair are…gangly and unattractive looking, but! Not this one.

I was in the class garden (there were bunnies there! so cute), and it faces the library there. His back was to a bookshelf, facing the window overlooking the garden. He was scribbling in a notebook, rather furiously, intent, even, but then I saw these boys run down between the bookshelves, laughing, and he put it away really quick, before his friends could see, I guess.

I wonder if it was a journal.

Anyways, it's of little importance. I still can't believe my dad is making me go there. I wanted to finish the rest of my high school education in France, and I told him so. But he suddenly decided that I need to "reacclimatize to American life", just assuming I'd even want to go to university here.

Also, we don't have to pay the exorbitant tuition since he's taking over the teaching position of this old man that's retiring. So it's "convenient".

Why am I not starting on the first day of school like everyone else, I asked? Apparently he spoke to his therapist (my father is not depressed, he is quite possibly the most self-satisfied person I know, him having a therapist is quite a joke, I think he honestly just likes talking about himself) who "specializes in youth counseling" and high school students said that students that start at a new school later than their peers are paid more attention to and people are more eager to meet them? And introduce themselves?

Mom said "oh, that makes sense. You have to pique their curiosity!"

It's a stretch. Sounds like bullshit to me, actually.

And who says I want to be paid more attention to? I am smothered with it as is. There's a reason I applied to elite schools far, far away, and it's not just that I received offers based on my test scores.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Henry Tudor**

September 28, 2002, Saturday, 9:00 PM

Dad caught me smoking a cigarette in my room. He didn't knock, of course, and I was blowing smoke out the window, but still, he definitely saw me.

All he said was, "Dinner's ready," before shutting the door.

I know he didn't tell Mom, or I would've heard an earful from her by now (she doesn't know I smoke, because she knocks\- a quaint concept in the Tudor household, certainly not one my sisters have ever followed…I'm sure Margot's seen quite a bit more of my…extracurricular activities than she'd like to have, for this reason).

I should feel relieved, right? But I feel…disappointed?

For some reason.

I don't know. It's stupid.

The fact that I still have this fucking diary is stupid.

We all had to start one, last year, for English, but I…kept writing in mine.

More promised he wouldn't read them, just scan to see that words had been written, and I assume he's not lying. Mainly because, to test this theory, I wrote explicitly, borderline pornographic accounts of…extracurricular activities. And drug use.

AND given that he's so moralistic or what-the-fuck-ever, he would've given me a lecture if he had.

But anyway, English is taught by Cromwell now (the course is…"Spring in Love", which I and every other dude, apparently, enrolled in expecting a high female to male ratio when it's actually only half and half like every other class), and he's not into shit like journals.

Or human emotion.

So the fact that he's the teacher for a class called "Spring in Love" is quite possibly one of the funniest things of my goddamn life.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **to: tudor**

 **sms sent 9:01 AM, sept. 30, 2002**

do u c the mary? 2'o'clock?

 **to: brandon**

no1 says mary but u. stop trying 2 make it a thing.

 **to: tudor**

they so do.

 **to: brandon**

yeah, i promise u they don't.

 **to: tudor**

whatever. nice, no?

 **to: brandon**

not my type.

 **to: tudor**

ur type is hot, and she is. ooo, she's talking 2 aragon…

 **to: brandon**

and we should care why?

 **to: tudor**

2 mary's…

 **to: brandon**

u know aragon would take that as a compliment, rite?

 **to: tudor**

…sitting in a tree…

 **to: brandon**

don't do this.

 **to: tudor**

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

 **to: brandon**

i'm turning my phone off now.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

September 30, 2002, Monday, 5:01 PM

One of the guys that was at the library (not the Writer, but one of his friends) tried to hit on me today.

So that was fun.

But I was transferred out of their most advanced French class, so that's one less with the Forward One.

(Not that it matters, but the Writer is not quite what I thought. He seems…cold. Though warm to his friends. He's clearly the leader, the most popular. Whoop de fucking doo.)

I made a friend, though, I think. Kate Aragon. She asked me how long I'd been taking French and I explained that I was more or less fluent, having spent the last three years in France, and she was very excited and asked if she could practice with me before class! So we talked in French for a bit.

Always refreshing to meet someone else that takes their education seriously.

After I turned down Forward One's proposal, he muttered, "yeah, whatever, Mary," and kept calling me that every time I saw him afterwards. The Writer rolled his eyes when he did, but the rest of their group laughed.

I asked Kate what it meant and she laughed and said, "Like the Virgin Mary."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It means he thinks you're a brownnoser, or an innocent. He used to call me that, too."

"What did you do about it?" I asked, as she twirled a lock of red hair around her finger, face screwed in contemplation as she leaned against her locker, as if she had to really go back in her memory to figure it out.

"Oh!" she said, snapping her fingers, "I said, 'if I'm the Virgin Mary, I may as well bless you with holy water', and dumped my water bottle over his head. He hasn't called me anything but Aragon since."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Henry Tudor**

September 30, 2002, Monday, 5:21 PM

New girl today. She's nothing to write home about.

Madame Moreau asked her a question and they held a five minute conversation _en français_ , speaking rapidly.

I picked up most of it: Moreau basically told her she was too advanced for high school French, and I guess Brandon picked up on that bit too, since he coughed "brownnoser" as she gathered her books to head to the admissions office.

Moreau, of course, heard it and asked "what was that?"

Brandon said "nothing", and she snapped, "you should consider yourself lucky to have half Mademoiselle Boleyn's grasp of French, Monsieur Brandon," to which Brandon responded, "but, Madame Moreau, I already know everything in French one needs to know."

" _C'est vrai_?" she asked, crossing her arms

Then Brandon, being himself, answered: " _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir_?"

And she threw him out.

"Dibs on the Mary," he whispered on the way out.

"Suit yourself," I responded, because, as previously stated, she's not that great looking. Petite, brunette…I don't know. I didn't even get a good look, really.

Cute, I suppose, but I prefer curvy, blonde.

Brandon just wanted to take the opportunity to talk to the only girl at this school that didn't know his reputation, probably (although Aragon might've already told her).

But honestly, one of these days his mouth is going to get him in serious trouble.

I tire of defending his ass sometimes, but…I don't know. We've known each other forever. Sometimes I think I'm closer to him that my own, actual brother.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Henry Tudor**

October 1, 2002, Tuesday, 4:11 PM

I edit my previous statement: she's nothing to write home about AND she's extremely irritating.

I'm enjoying some quality time with Andrea Hastings (and, believe you me, that quality time extends wellllll beyond those hallowed halls…let's just say those Ring Pops she sucks on are merely a preview) when I hear a shrill, "excuse me?"

Like I'm stopping for that.

"Could you make babies in front of your own locker, perhaps?"

At this (because really, who says shit like that? "perhaps"? is she fifty years old?) I broke away from the making out to the unfortunate, pinched face of the Boleyn girl.

Her little brow furrowed, face flushed, her skinny arms tight around the books to her rather nonexistent chest…a tragic picture, really, her, wearing two dark plaits like a goddamn kindergartener.

She hasn't hemmed the regulation plaid skirt, and I doubt she's going to. She and Aragon will be the last hold-outs on that front, I'm sure.

Which is a shame, really, because one of the only things Boleyn has going for her, looks-wise, is that her legs aren't terrible…

"Oh, sweetheart. You think this," I said, wide-eyed, pointing between Andrea and I (the next bit earned a giggle, but those are pretty easy to earn from A), "is how babies are made? I do hope your parents signed the consent form for our sex ed class. They play a very informational video, should clear some things up for you."

Boleyn canted her head to the side and smiled.

So I'm thinking, is she thick or something, at first, then:

"And I'm sure you watch it every night with a bottle of lotion at your bedside," she said, honeyed tone matching her simper, dark brown eyes wide in pretended naiveté, "but, in between now and then, I need my Econ textbook."

Not the kind of comeback I expected from a Mary (Brandon's title might be off, after all), but it stunned me enough that I moved out of the way.

"You've got a sharp tongue," I said mildly, as she did the combination to her locker.

"Wish I could say the same about your mind."

Now, I took the bait at that. No one calls me dumb. I'm right under Aragon in the class ranking, head of the Debate Team, and I don't cheat. Ever.

I could debate circles around this princess, I'm sure.

"Why are you such a bitch?"

"Dunno," she replied with an ineffable shrug, "probably the same reason you're such a prince."

And then, textbook in hand, she slammed her locker, turned to Andrea and I and said, "You realize she's been tugging at your sleeve for the last minute, no?"

Andrea dipped her head.

I guess she had been, but I was…distracted.

Boleyn patted her on the shoulder and said, to her, in a faux, audible whisper, "You could better, you know," before sashaying away.

Grandma Margaret always says that "the Devil is a master of disguise and takes on many forms."

One of them is, apparently, the ninety nine pound figure of Anne Boleyn.

I had to reassure A that I wasn't ignoring her for the rest of the day. What a pain in the ass that was.

According to Brandon, Boleyn shot him down yesterday, citing some boyfriend.

I'm so sure. Who'd want to go out with her? I don't think that level of masochism exists on this planet, honestly.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **to: charles brandon**

 **from: will compton**

 **sms sent: 10:04 AM, october 2, 2002**

wtf was THAT about?

 **to: compton**

fuck if i know.

 **to: brandon**

"no one makes fun of boleyn but me"?

 **to: compton**

idk. pass a note, this is hard 2 hide in class.

 **to: brandon**

and risk psycho reading it? i think not.

 **to: compton**

good point.

 **to: brandon**

what does that even mean?

 **to: compton**

like /i/ understand tudor?

 **to: brandon**

ur his best friend.

 **to: compton**

prob exactly what he said.

 **to: brandon**

huh. poor knivert.

 **to: compton**

"slab of granite" /was/ a bit harsh…

 **to: brandon**

he didn't say it to her face!

 **to: compton**

she has /something/

 **to: brandon**

oh, fs. they're little, but they're there.

 **to: compton**

maybe tudor wants to c them?

 **to: brandon.**

pls, when /doesn't/ tudor want 2c them?

 **to: compton**

tru, but…idk. idt he's ever slammed anyone against a locker 4 that sort of commentary.

 **to: brandon**

right? it's not like she's his gf.

 **to: compton**

it's weird, right?

 **to: brandon**

VERY weird.

 **to: compton**

well, i'm not saying a word about her.

 **to: brandon**

same.

 **to: compton**

to play it safe.

 **to: brandon**

neither praise nor slander

 **to: compton**

co-fucking-signed, man.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

October 2, 2002, Wednesday, 4:56 PM

I hate Henry Tudor.

So. Much.

(I can't believe he was Writer. I can't believe it! I can't believe I saw him from a distance a few days ago and thought, 'oh, kindred spirits, maybe'. AS. IF.)

I guess he held a grudge from yesterday, because I'm eating the éclair I picked out this morning from a specialty bakery (because I miss éclairs and good ones are hard to find, thank you very much) sitting on the front steps of the school with Kate (who was showing me the notes for the advanced English course, what a sweetheart, honestly) when who snatches it from my hand?

Take a wild fucking guess.

Then, because that is not enough, apparently, he actually has the audacity to shove the pastry into his stupid, pouty mouth!

"Tudor!" Kate said, "give it back to her."

"Are you seriously friends with her now?" he asked, holding the éclair above his head (I tried to take it back but was jumping around aimlessly, basically, as he's freakishly tall), "because, honestly, Kate," and then, with a smirk aimed at me, he used mocking emphasis, "you could do better."

"You're being a jerk," she said.

"Now," he said, with a pout, "that's no way to talk about your first kiss, is it?"

"It is when he's being a jerk," she said, calmly, hands folded in her lap.

"Ew," I said, and Kate laughed at that, shaking her head

"'Ew'? Excuse you, it was a lovely kiss, though not meant to be. We're just of different philosophies, that's all," he said, winking at her, "isn't that right, Aragon?"

"We certainly are," she said, but didn't intervene- put all her stuff back in her backpack, ditched me, actually, and walked into school!

Rude!

She did wish me good luck, though.

I suppose there's not much she could've done- she's even shorter than I am.

"Give it. Back."

"Make me."

But before I could even think of a way to "make him", he shoved the rest of the éclair in his mouth.

I hate that he can look down at me. I hate, hate, hate it. I might need to check the academic planner to see if we're allowed to wear boots with heels.

"And now you have éclair on your face," I said, because he did- chocolate and cream smeared next to the corner of his mouth, tugging into yet another smirk.

"Oh," he drawled, "I've had a Claire on my face before."

He didn't try to wipe any of it off, had his hands in the pockets of his slacks instead.

Everything about him radiated smugness in that moment, and I noted another flaw (though it didn't detract from attractiveness- even more irritating): a dot of brown, on the bottom of one his green-blue eyes, framed by long lashes.

"Heterochromia". I learned about it last year. It's a genetic mutation, actually, to have eyes with more than one color.

So I could've called him a mutant, technically. But I'm not that mean. I settled for:

"You're vile."

"'Vile'? Oh, no, I assure you," he said, chuckling, "it's a thing of beauty, not vile at all…unless the giver lacks skill, that is. And I do not. So, I assume you've never experienced the pleasure?"

I felt my cheeks warm, because no, I have not…I've always been too shy to ask. And Harry's never offered, but I'm not a "Virgin Mary", either.

"That's really none of your concern."

"Thank God for that."

"Are you going to clean your face or not?"

"Mmm…not."

I fluttered my eyelashes, smiled, stood on tip-toes, and brushed the remainder of the éclair from the corner of his mouth with my thumb.

Mouth agape, he watched, unblinking, as I sucked the chocolate crumbs off.

"Don't. Steal. My. Fucking. Éclairs."

And that was the last thing I said to him today.

I'd like to say it's the last thing I'll say to him ever, but I have to go to this fucking school with him for the next year. So that's unlikely.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 **Diary of Henry Tudor**

October 2, 2002, Wednesday, 5:11 PM

Anne Boleyn makes me. Want. To Set. Myself.

On FIRE.

That is all.

5:20 PM

Except what, what does my mom bring to the kitchen today, you ask?

OH.

"I picked these up from the new French bakery in town," she said, brightly, "there's croissants, éclairs-"

I choked on the glass of water I was drinking when she pushed the box towards me and spit it out all over the counter.

"Hal, are you alright-"

"NO. ÉCLAIRS!" I shouted, before leaving the room.

So now, on top of everything else, because of this nightmare of a girl, my mother probably thinks I'm insane.

Since I think this is the first time I have ever said no…to food…of any kind.

Can the Antichrist be female? Is that possible?

I'll have to ask my grandmother the next time I visit her at St. John's Home. She would know.


End file.
